Tempting Fate Page 3

  Sophie pursed her lips at her husband. “Sitting is the usual way of taking tea.”

  “So it is, but as the usual way and your way so rarely coincide—”

  “I’ll sit,” Sophie ground out.

  “Excellent. Is Whit in the study?” Alex asked Thompson.

  “He is, Your Grace.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes at Alex’s retreating back before walking into the parlor and—true to her word—taking a seat in an overstuffed chair.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Evie asked as Kate poured tea.

  Sophie groaned and pressed a hand to her belly. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Mirabelle felt a sliver of alarm at her friend’s pained expression. “Are you unwell? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m in perfect health,” Sophie assured her. “It’s only that I’ve eaten more in the last six months than I have in the whole of my lifetime. It’s Alex. The man won’t stop feeding me. It’s some sort of horrible illness with him. ‘Have some stew, Sophie. A few more carrots, Sophie. Just one more bite of fish, Sophie, one more piece of toast, one more slice of…’” She straightened in her chair. “Are those lemon tarts?”

  “Er…yes.”

  “Thank God.” Sophie snagged one, bit in, and spoke around the food. “If he’d foist this sort of food on me, I’d be less inclined to complain, but it isn’t desserts with him. It’s pounds and pounds—tons, really—of breads and meat and vegetables. Mother of God, the vegetables. The man’s so bloody careful. Do you have any idea how long it took us to reach here?”

  Three heads shook in unison.

  “Four days,” Sophie informed them, taking another bite. “Four endless days, and we not forty miles from Haldon. He made our driver stop every two hours so I could rest. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? And he was a dreadful traveling companion, let me tell you. I couldn’t so much as shift in the seat without him fussing over me, or calling out to our man to have a care with the ruts in the road. Not that there were any ruts, mind you, or that we’d enough speed to have felt them if there were, the man’s simply come unhinged.”

  “I’m surprised he agreed to let you come at all,” Evie ventured.

  “Oh, he didn’t initially. There was a…discussion.” Sophie’s expression went from exasperated to grim as she set down the remainder of the tart. “Good Lord, listen to me. He’s driven me to ranting. It won’t do. I have to get away from him, for a few hours at the very least. I beg of you, help me.”

  “Why don’t we go into Benton for a bit of shopping,” Evie suggested. “Mirabelle needs a bonnet and gloves to go with her new dress—matching reticule as well if one can be found.”

  “I certainly do not,” Mirabelle objected on a laugh. She held up a hand before Evie could argue. “But I’m not averse to purchasing something small. Something small, pretty, and pointless.” She reached for a tart and bit in. “I rather feel like pampering myself.”

  “For once,” Evie commented.

  “Alex will want to join us.” Sophie pointed out.

  “Well, we’ll simply have to find an excuse to become separated,” Evie said. “Take him aside at some point and tell him you need to purchase some clothing items of an embarrassingly feminine nature.”

  “Oh, he’ll insist on joining me for that.”

  “Well then, tell him I need to purchase some clothing items of an embarrassingly feminine nature.”

  “That, I think, should do it,” Sophie agreed with a grin as Kate and Mirabelle laughed. “Do you need them?”

  Evie merely shrugged. “One can never have too many undergarments, so it needn’t be a lie.”

  They were still laughing when Whit poked his head in the door. “Ladies…imp…Alex and I are for—”

  “Benton,” Kate piped in and shot a covert glance at Sophie. “Sophie has expressed an interest in Mrs. Gage’s pastries. You don’t mind do you, Whit?”

  Whit frowned at the food the servants had brought into the room. He opened his mouth, but Sophie—devious and clever girl that she was—cut off any argument by lifting her hand to run gentle circles across her extended belly.

  “I don’t wish to be a bother,” she said with a soft voice and angelic smile. “But I’m simply ravenous for something…” Her eyes scanned the plates in the room. “Chocolate. There doesn’t seem to be any here.”

  “You’re not a bother,” Whit replied. In the manner of men who have limited experience with expectant mothers, he was exceedingly careful to keep his gaze on her face, or over her shoulder, or anywhere other than the obvious mound under her dress. “If you want Mrs. Gage’s pastries, you’ll have them. Alex and I will ride into town—”

  “Oh, but I don’t know which kind I might prefer, exactly, and I’d very much like to spend some time shopping with my friends before all the…” She waved a weak hand in the air. “Fuss and noise of the party. But if it’s too much trouble for you, we can walk.”

  “Walk?”

  “Yes, of course.” She began to lever herself out of the chair with all the strength and grace of a woman on her deathbed. “It’s not more than three miles, and I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  Whit was inside the room and gently pushing her back into the chair in under a second. Mirabelle managed, only barely, to keep from laughing. Oh, but Sophie was a wily creature, she thought. Outright weakness might make a man like Whit inclined to pamper a bit, but quiet bravery would destroy him.

  “Sit down, Sophie, please. There’s no need for you to walk, for pity’s sake. Alex and I will take you into town.”

  “Well, if you’re sure—”

  “Of course. Of course, I’m sure. You’ll have all the pastries you like.”

  “Looks as if the carriage is nearly ready, ladies,” Whit commented later as their transport, along with his and Alex’s mounts, were brought to the front of the house. “We need only hitch the imp to the front of the team.”

  Mirabelle sent him a sneer and climbed in behind a freshly attired Kate. “Rest assured, cretin, if I were to suddenly find myself a horse, the first thing I’d do would be to kick you in—”

  “We’re ready to go now!” Sophie inserted enthusiastically as she clambered in and sat beside Mirabelle, making room also for Kate and Evie.

  “—the head,” Mirabelle shouted after him before turning to Sophie with a furrowed brow. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  “Er…something else. Something…” Kate waved her hand to indicate the lower half of her body.

  Realization dawned on Mirabelle’s face, and with it, a delighted grin. “Oh. Oh, that’s very good.” She poked her head back out the window to amend her earlier threat, but found Whit gone. “Blast.”

  There was only one dress shop in all of Benton, but as the dress shop was run by Madame Duvalle, one was all that was needed. A London modiste of some import in the previous decade, Madame Duvalle had fallen out of fashion in part because of the capriciousness of the ton, and in part because of her unwillingness to compromise her work to the demands of silly young girls—but according to Lady Thurston, that could only be counted as a mark in her favor.

  She’d made the short move to Benton at Lady Thurston’s urging, and kept up a lively business catering to the Coles, their frequent guests, and the surrounding gentry.

  Madame Duvalle also held the unusual distinction of being an actual native of France, having been born, raised, and trained in her art in Paris. And just so there would be no misunderstanding on the girls’ part, what Madame Duvalle created was art.

  The shop was located with the other shops of quality in the heart of the town. A young woman with a friendly smile greeted them at the door, then disappeared into a back room to discreetly inform Madame that her most prestigious patrons had arrived. Before Mirabelle had had a chance to glance at the new materials, a very tall and somewhat plump woman sailed out of the door the young woman had recently exited. She stopped abruptly, let out an enormous sigh, and clasped he
r hands to her heart.

  “Mes chéries!”

  It was an entrance the young women had long grown accustomed to, but as it was no less sincere than it was dramatic, they returned the greeting with smiles.

  “Mes belles, look at you,” Madame Duvalle crooned. “Why I should bother to put such effort into your gowns, I do not know. You would make a draped sheet appear a masterpiece of thread and needle. But I am most delighted to see all of you…except for you,” she informed Mirabelle with a sniff and a twinkling eye. “You are too stubborn.”

  Mirabelle laughed and, unable to resist, leaned up to kiss a cheek. “You were able to convince me to choose the lavender gown over the brown,” she reminded her.

  “Yes, but it was the ivory I wanted you to have.”

  And it was the ivory that she had wanted to have, Mirabelle recalled, but it had been too dear, and far less practical than the deep lavender, which would hide stains more easily.

  “I’m here twice in as many weeks with the intention of making a purchase, surely that must count for something.”

  “Oui, it counts for much.” She gave Mirabelle a hopeful smile. “The ivory this time?”

  “Nothing quite so grand, I’m afraid. We’re in need of undergarments.”

  “Ah.” Madame Duvalle looked over as newcomers arrived. “You know the way, of course. I will give you time to look while I see to these ladies, yes?”

  Unlike the bolts of cloth and the ready-made gowns, items of a more intimate nature were displayed in a separate, windowless room.

  “Have you any idea what you might want?” Kate asked Evie as the women took in the contents of the room.

  “No, but I’ll own myself intrigued by this.”

  Mirabelle looked up from where she’d been studying a fashion plate to see Evie point out a…a something, displayed on a seamstress’s form. Light blue satin cut much too simply to be a gown, hugged rather than draped over the model.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” Mirabelle laughed. “What is the point of such a garment?”

  “I’ve no idea,” was both Kate’s and Evie’s reply.

  “To feel delicious,” was Sophie’s. Three heads immediately spun in her direction. She shrugged, a slight bloom of red showing on her cheeks. “Perhaps one needs to be married to appreciate the prettiness of it.”

  “Or be in the market for something pretty and pointless,” Evie added with a pointed look at Mirabelle.

  “That’s absurd, Evie,” Mirabelle chuckled. “We don’t even know what it is.”

  “Sophie appears to.”

  “Not really,” Sophie admitted. “I just think it’s lovely. Perhaps it’s a chemise.”

  “It’s too long.” Mirabelle argued. “It would reach near the ankles. And the material isn’t right.”

  Chemises were made of sturdy material that could withstand the abuse of repeated washings. The fabric before her looked as if it might melt in a hard rain. She reached out to run a finger down the material. And fell instantly in love.

  “Oh my,” she breathed. “Have you ever felt anything so soft?”

  “Ah, you have found my little experiment, I see.”

  At the sound of Madame Duvalle’s voice, Mirabelle snatched her hand back with a guilty start. “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Pftt. If I did not want it admired, I would not have left it out. What do you make of it?”

  “It’s divine,” Mirabelle whispered and had four pairs of eyes blinking at her. “Well, it is,” she defended. “It feels like…like water. What’s it for?”

  “It is a chemise.”

  “But…”

  “But it is most impractical, yes. And so every woman of means has informed me.” She gave an annoyed huff. “It is odd, is it not, that even the most frivolous of women would not be eager to indulge themselves thus?”

  “Because they can’t display it where others could see and envy,” Evie murmured.

  “Exactly so, my clever girl.”

  “A woman with a husband could,” Sophie said, considering.

  “This is true,” Madame Duvalle laughed. “But this piece is not for you, juene mère. It is for Miss Browning.”

  Mirabelle wouldn’t have been more stunned if she’d been offered the deed to the shop. Which is likely why she failed to see the look of understanding pass between Madame Duvalle and Kate.

  “For me? But I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly. I…” She trailed off. “Couldn’t,” she felt, summed up her position quite well. She couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t find a use for it. Couldn’t all sorts of things.

  Her objections feel on deaf ears. “I insist. I would have my creation appreciated, not sitting in this room collecting dust.” Madame Duvalle began to pull the chemise off the model. “I ask three shillings and will do the alterations for free, yes?”

  Three shillings? It was a ridiculously low price.

  “Three shillings? That’s absurd. The material alone—”

  “Three shillings, stubborn girl, and also the currency of gossip. I would hear of the guests.” She held the material up against Mirabelle and squinted. “No alterations needed, I think. We are fortunate.”

  “A very hard bargain,” Evie cut in before Mirabelle could continue her argument. “But she’ll take it. Which gossip would you care to hear first?”

  Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and not all that interested in having her way, if truth be known, Mirabelle dug into her reticule for the three shillings. “I’ll take good care of it,” she promised. “Thank you.”

  “Of course you will.” Madame Duvalle moved into the front of the store, which was—to Mirabelle’s vast relief—once again empty. “Now, tell me what you make of the Mr. Hunter who has come to visit.”

  Kate shrugged. “He has business with Whit. We haven’t met him as yet.”

  “I’ve met him in London,” Sophie told them. “He seems pleasant enough.”

  “Yes, a very pleasant man,” Madame Duvalle responded as she set the chemise on a table and began to wrap it in tissue. “That is how, I am told, the London actresses and opera singers speak of him, a most pleasant gentleman.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mirabelle and Kate didn’t bother to hide their frowns. Sophie and Evie didn’t bother to hide their grins. And Madame Duvalle didn’t bother to consider that either reaction might be anything other than encouragement.

  “His conquests are quite legendary, but it is said he does not dally with the innocent or the married, as many young men seem to feel they must, and that is something, no?”

  Evie gave a scoffing laugh. “It’s quite all right, then, for him to seduce legions of women so long as they’re actresses and courtesans?”

  Madame Duvalle gave a very Gallic shrug and put the chemise in a box. “One cannot expect him to exist as a monk, after all.”

  “Why not?” Evie demanded. “Women are expected to live as nuns. It’s most unfair.”

  “C’est vrai, ma petite, but so it has always been for women, no? If life were fair, I would be forever young and beautiful, I would have a delectable young man to dance attendance upon me, and all my customers would be as much fun as the four of you.”

  “I think, Madame Duvalle,” said Sophie, “that if you were forever young and beautiful, it would be distinctly unfair to the rest of us.”

  Madame Duvalle smiled slyly. “Don’t be silly, I would share my dancing man.”

  Four

  To Mirabelle’s mind, it was just a touch unsettling to traipse about Benton carrying a box that held an unconventional undergarment. As such, she thought it might be best if she dropped her purchase off at the carriage while the others went ahead to the bookseller’s.

  But if she had known she would run into Whit on the sidewalk, she would have carried the box from one end of town to the other without complaint. There w ere, after all, varying degrees of unsettling.

  “Whit. Hello. It’s a very nice day, isn’t it? The others have gone to the bookseller’s. Where’
s Alex?”

  She was chattering. She knew she was chattering, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was amazing she was able to get out anything at all, considering she had an entirely different—and entirely involuntary—sort of conversation running through her head.

  Whit. Hello. I’m carrying a blue chemise in this box. I think it might be some sort of satin. Isn’t that lovely?

  She peeked over his shoulder at the carriage and wondered if she could sneak by him without being too obvious about it. She rather thought not. Certainly not with him suddenly looking at her so intently.

  She felt the heat creep up from her chest to spread across her neck and face. She was blushing. Five-and-twenty years of age and she was blushing. It was ridiculous. And dangerous. Whit was watching her with amused curiosity, his blue eyes narrowing with an interest that alarmed her.

  “Alex is at Maver’s Tavern. What are you hiding, imp?”

  “What?” The word came out too loud, but good Lord, how could he possibly know? Had he seen her? Mirabelle glanced back at the modiste’s shop. No, the windows reflected the afternoon sunlight, no one could see inside without standing mere inches away, and she was fairly certain someone would have mentioned if the Earl of Thurston were pressing his nose against the glass.

  She cleared her throat nervously. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Whit.”

  Her voice came out too soft this time. Damn it, she was only making things harder for herself.

  “You’re only making things harder for yourself,” he said, and smiled at her scowl. “You’re so nervous, I half expect you to bolt.”

  The idea had merit. Her whole body was tensed for flight. She forced her muscles to relax. But not too much. She liked to keep all her options open.